


Sweeter Than Wine

by Tammany



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, Seduction, Who's tempting whom?, Worldly Pleasures.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 16:42:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19407262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: This is another round similar to "You'll Be The Life of Me." Again, to me it looks like Aziraphale is the hedonist and the leader in exploring Earth's physical pleasures. So this is another examination of what that implies, and how it might turn out.





	Sweeter Than Wine

“What is it?”

The angel, in a town plaza somewhere East of Eden, was sniffing in fascination at a simple clay pot filled with…what? The demon, curious as a cat, couldn’t bear not knowing.

“Really. What is it?”

Aziraphale, quite obviously intrigued, said, “It’s something new. The humans have created it, but…God apparently intended it. In the ineffable plan, as it were. It’s a new drink, the result of ‘fermentation.’ They tried it with fruits and honey first. Now they’ve figured out how to make it with grains. They call it ‘beer,’ and think it proves that God loves them and wants them to be happy.”

Crowley snorted. “If that were true, why didn’t she leave them in the Garden? Plenty of fruit there. Apples, even.”

“Mmmm,” Aziraphale murmured. “Apples mean ‘cider.’ Maybe that proves God’s going to forgive them—something so nice from the apple itself.” He found a ladle, scooped up some of the ‘beer,’ and filled a cup. He sipped, gingerly. “Fizzes,” he said almost to himself. “Interesting!”

Crowley snorted again. “You want to watch yourself, Angel. It looks like rot with a fancy name, to me…”

“Mmmmm,” Aziraphale murmured again. He sipped, smiled happily, and said, “I think it’s, well, not exactly nice. I suspect it will take them a long time before they can invent craft beer and microbreweries. But it’s a good start, and the alcohol content is intriguing.” He shoved the clay cup toward the demon. “Here! Try it!”

Crowley never understood why, when Aziraphale said, “Here, try this!” he always did try. Nor did he quite understand why he always liked it so much, often running away with things Aziraphale had introduced him to. Still, he reluctantly took the cup, sipped gingerly at the liquid, and rolled it around in his mouth.

“Interesting,” he agreed, grudgingly. He grimaced, thinking about all the fascinating conflicting sensations this body could experience. Fizz on the tongue, slight but real. The oddest sharp pong in his nose. Sour down his throat.

A few hours later Aziraphale had introduced him to cider, perry, palm wine, date wine, grape wine, mead, and a number of other ongoing human experiments. As a consequence, a few hours later he—and the Angel—were utterly rat-arsed. Another ten hours and for the first time they were hung-over.

“I think we’re going to have to learn how to do this better,” Aziraphale said. His face was stunningly pale, his hair even more wild and spiked than ever—a field of flickering, near-white flames crowning his head, halo-like. His glory…

Crowley was grateful he’d invented the notion of eye-shields to hide his serpent eyes. They were useful when the sun had for some reason turned so aggressive. And, yet—

Aziraphale was right. This “fermentation” stuff was interesting. Worth learning how to handle better.

It was a pattern, he later realized. If Crowley had never eaten oysters, there was Aziraphale ready to, well…to _tempt_ him, with all the seductive ease of an experienced demon.

“Try this roast lamb, Crowley.”

“They’ve invented something called ‘pasta,’ and you’ve just got to experience it—sublime!”

“It’s called ‘fashion.’ Not just ‘clothes!’ Clothes made to look nice. Here—try this toga! It’s got a gorgeous drape and black suits you!”

Crowley’s long, long memory was filled with the million ways Aziraphale had seduced him through his body’s senses.

“Swimming! You must give it a go, Crowley! It’s quite fascinating—it does the strangest things when you run water around all this body’s dangling bits!”

He’d glowered at Aziraphale and muttered that he suspected that angels were not supposed to care about dangly bits. Aziraphale had blushed, flustered, but then come back with a tart comment that if they insisted on assigning him a human body for his Earthly duties, it was probably all right to notice them on occasion, as seemed applicable. Not that he mentioned it again.

Yet—he did introduce Crowley to the Roman baths. And to perfumes. To soap. Later to tailors, and haberdashers.

To books.

To music.

To cocoa.

To down comforters.

To theater.

“Oh, Crowley! Fancy meeting you here in Japan! Come see what the humans do with raw fish! It’s amazing!”

“Raw? Sounds like something my lot would come up with,” Crowley said, making a face and looking warily at the clearly raw fish. But once again Aziraphale was correct. Sushi or sashimi, it was miraculously nice.

Humans—go figure. The most amazing creatures. God’s bounty spread around them—and they kept improving on the original perfection.

Crepes.

He struggled to explore the world with Aziraphale’s innocent, fascinated enthusiasm…century by century he became good at it. He came to have entire fields where he became the tempter.

Jazz…

Fast cars!

Queen.

Computers.

He was shy to introduce them, though, for so many reasons. He feared if Aziraphale understood he’d come to explore the world as vigorously as the angel himself did, he’d no longer come to Crowley, eyes alight, treasure in hand…

“It’s called ‘cheese,’ and I think it’s going to turn out to be something quite special!”

Or, “Crowley, you have to see: they’ve found a way to take pictures with light! And they make the pictures move. They tell stories with them! It’s better than the Globe!”

“Look, Crowley—just look! It’s like creation itself—do you remember? And God said ‘Let there be light, and there was light!’ Now—watch!” Laughing in giddy delight, Aziraphale demonstrated the electric fixture on the ceiling, turned on by pulling a little chain. He used the gesture ever after, amusing and exasperating the demon, who did remember that innocent time of creation, before the Fall—and who never understood why Aziraphale never grew tired of his own jokes…or why Crowley never tired of them either, though he hid the fact behind scowls and sarky comments.

The pattern, though. It was always there. Always constant. Always generous and open-hearted and kind. Aziraphale loved the world, was fascinated, and was always, always, always willing to share it with the demon, even if they were on opposite sides.

Was it some sly temptation—a usurping of Crowley’s function?

There were so many things that shattered the demon. The protecting wing. The gentle, patting hand adjusting the drape of a cape or the line of a new jacket. The smile on presenting some new food. The clean, carefully tended smell of the angel, one part heaven and two parts earthly indulgences. Good food, good wine, good soaps, good perfumes. How did it come to pass he knew what the angel smelled like—could have picked him out of a pack of strangers blindfolded?

And why did the angel make him feel so many contradictory, conflicting things? Fondness and frustration? Delight and annoyance? Longing and aversion? Trust and a desperate sense of vulnerability that demanded he protect himself, hiding behind sarcasm and cynical disbelief?

Why did he love to get drunk with the angel—and feel shy and set off balance when they chose to become sober. Not that they’d ever perfected their techniques. No matter what, there were always reminders of hangovers past, and a woolly, gummy taste in the mouth, and a sense of having walked on the parapets of Eden, so close they could have fallen…

Or Fallen…

He knew that the angel had ruined him for Hell; probably for heaven, too. No cheese, no jazz, no sushi, no swaggering black-garbed fashion.

Aziraphale, his tempter, had taught him to dread eternity if everything went wrong. A life without light, music, or dance? Without little restaurants where the majordomo snapped to attention at the approach of dear Mr. Fell? Infinite hell without hope, without escape, without earth itself?

Without dear Mr. Fell?

It terrified Crowley. The only way out was…he couldn’t bring himself to even say the words out loud, instead speaking of “insurance,” and printing the words in coarse block print shown to the angel, the one person who might understand, and help.

He was furious when Aziraphale refused and went storming off. And, yet—his heart rose in joy. His angel could not bear to give him death…

His angel. His tempter. His seducer. His best friend. Half his life seemed to be tied to the angel…and all his heart shook at the idea of it being any other way.

Perhaps if he hadn’t been a demon, he’d have understood. Perhaps if he’d not grown accustomed to being tempted, rather than being the tempter. Perhaps if they’d either of them been better at ignoring the apparent rules of Heaven and Hell, or had thought long before the Apocalypse that the Great Plan might not be the Ineffable Plan. Perhaps if he’d not been as terrified as his angel by the love between them, and the mutual dependency…

Perhaps he’d have noticed the earthly experiences his angel had not suggested he sample, and which he had not suggested the angel try.

But he was as terrified as his angel. He was as longing—and as sure that they were angel and demon, supernatural Montague and Capulet, doomed. Best friends was already more than they were really prepared to attempt.

And then one day, months after the Apocalypse, at the end of a happy meeting in the park, Aziraphale said, staring into the distance, “You know, it was quite odd occupying Madam Tracy. It made me wonder why I hadn’t attempted possession earlier—with a willing subject, of course. Just to satisfy curiosity.”

“I thought angels didn’t do things like possession,” Crowley drawled, entirely oblivious to the direction of the discussion. “Rather wordly of you. Tsk-tsk.”

Aziraphale blushed, but forged ahead. “You’d be amazed what sorts of things they think of. And—the sensations she remembered. And the feelings she had for Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell! Goodness. I never experienced anything like it. Body and feelings and soul all tangled up like that, with so much… So much…”

“So much what, Angel? They’re human. The only people more capable of blessed creation and damnable destruction than even Heaven or Hell can offer. Of course it’s a mucked up mess in there. I suspect their brains are rotted.”

“Fermented,” Aziraphale said, and a tentative smile hovered at the corner of his mouth… He glanced affectionately over at the demon. “Not like corruption. More like wine. Or cheese. Or good bread. It made me go all tingly.” He giggled, and looked merrily at Crowley. “As fascinating as beer. Do you remember when I found the humans had invented beer?”

Crowley felt a fond smile attempt to blossom on his own face, and quickly tamped it down, instead saying with dry humor, “And cider. And perry. And wine. And hangovers.”

“But it was all worth it, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale said it with the same dear, sweet voice that had toasted the world itself when they’d celebrated at the Ritz. “Worth every last headache and mucky mouth.”

“Well. If you put it that way,” Crowley admitted, the smile finally taking control. “You’ve introduced me to quite a lot that was worth it, over the years.”

He felt his eyes catch on Aziraphale’s. He felt his heart swell at the fond, mischievous, _tempting_ expression in his Angel’s eyes. He felt his breath hitch, and his body—this human body he’d been assigned at the start of the world—go all tingly and goose-pimpled, like the first time he’d followed Aziraphale into a cold stream and let the water toy with his dangly bits.

“I thought we were talking about possession,” he said, stubbornly refusing to go with the silver flow of feeling.

Aziraphale cocked his head, then offered his hand. “Possess. Be possessed. Inside Madam Tracy’s mind, it wasn’t entirely clear there was any difference.”

Crowley’s hand was in Aziraphale’s. He had no memory of accepting the offered hand, though. His lips were tight. “I’m a demon. You’re an angel. We have nothing in common.”

He already knew that line of argument was doomed to fail. So he was not entirely surprised when Aziraphale pulled him up off the bench, linked their elbows, and led him along the wandering path of Berkely Square. “Nothing at all,” he agreed. “Quite different. And quite the same. And according to Madam Tracy, it’s all good.” And when they reached the bookstore, and found their way up to the upper rooms, he proceeded to introduce his demon to yet another of Earth’s tempting, seductive pleasures.

Sometime that night, in joyful dismay and terrified ecstasy, Crowley thought, "Well I'll be blessed. Kisses really are sweeter than wine!" And when he woke next to Aziraphale the next morning, he was almost ready to believe God wanted him to be happy.


End file.
